


Better This Way

by SylverLining



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-29 01:37:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/999334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylverLining/pseuds/SylverLining
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>George returns to Weasly's Wizard Wheezes, and encounters painful memories, damages, isolation, but ultimately someone ghostly and very pleased to see him. Bittersweet, but more sweet than bitter in the end. Gred and Forge reunited? It's better this way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better This Way

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this several years ago... but it's still one of my favorites. If only for the sheer sentimentality and love involved. Some headcanon as to how the Harry Potter ghosts work.

 

George couldn't quite bring himself to go inside. Not just yet.

 

His first thought was that it looked completely empty – dark windows, which in itself might have meant nothing, but this was that sort of entirely still and opaque, dusty grey darkness that said the place had been vacant for a long time. It wasn't as if whoever'd been living there had just stepped out on impulse for a cup of tea, because places like that still had a sort of… brightness. A residue life and light still floating about them, as if the building knew that its inhabitant would come walking round the corner at any moment. They'd come home again. No – this shop had been left alone for months; it knew nobody was coming home. Given up hope. It had been dark and vacant for a year. Just over a year. Only he knew precisely how long, down to the day.

He knew because it had become increasingly more important to him, day by day over the past few weeks, it was always on his mind – I should go back. I really should go back, open the shop again, it's been far too long. There's no reason at all why I shouldn't. There's every reason why I  _should_ , actually: it's over now, the war, the threat of violence and death, the need for  _constant vigilance_  – people didn't need to look over their shoulders all the time anymore. They could relax. Hell, they could laugh now, and not feel guilty for letting their guard down. It was time to help them along with it too, help people get slowly back to normal. Laughter was the best medicine (quite handy for creating shining silver animals, too), and who better to supply it?

And, besides, it'd be nice to be there again, in the shop with the little apartment rooms up above. But no, no, that wasn't even it, really, it wasn't that he wanted to be there, it was that he wanted to be somewhere other than where he was: that overcrowded house, where there used to be the happy chatter and comforting chaos that he'd loved and helped to create. His mother hovering over him now with only his best interests at heart, wanting so badly to comfort her suffering child, but how could she help him when she couldn't help herself? Nothing could help her. Nothing could help any of them except time, went the old saying, and time was the only thing he felt like he had far too much of, and at the very same time, none at all. It was all just… backwards. All wrong.

Seeing your own white, bloodied and discolored face and staring, horribly empty eyes tended to make one feel that way. Seeing that broken face every moment, everywhere, even when he closed his eyes… well, that did more than make him feel just a little 'wrong'. That was…

But that house, that cramped, tumbledown, wonderful little Burrow, comforting at first with family and friends nearby (most of them, anyway – but we weren't thinking about that, remember?) had become so oppressive. And he'd tried to keep busy, he really had, he'd withdrawn from the others, stayed by himself, but he'd tried to not mope and wallow in grief alone but actually do something worthwhile, take his mind off it… He wasn't used to crying. Tried it once, didn't like it, not even when it was about…

But all the possible product designs he'd forced himself to think of had turned unintentionally serious and in some cases even morbid. They became reminders. What had begun as a platypus pudding (light, fun companion piece to the very well-received canary creams) had somehow transformed itself into not a duck-billed mammalian anomaly as could be reasonably expected, but some sort of accidental explosive. And not just a small or medium-sized, prime-for-practical-mayhem grade, but a truly volatile substance that threatened to go off at any moment, would have brought the whole upper story down around his head… would've been perfect for a big battle like the last cataclysmic clash. Could've done some real good for their side. Good for you, George, inventing that now, when there's absolutely no use for it, there's nothing it can change, nobody it can bring back. Well done.

He'd had enough of explosions and collapsing walls for a while, anyway. Enough for a lifetime. He'd left the thing alone, hadn't even tried to tweak it back to its original transfiguring-into-weird-animals purpose or find some utterly hilarious and brilliant use for it – which was his first clue that there really was something different about him since…

And the others. He knew they were only trying to help, but God, he was getting so tired of them half-looking at him, never sure what to say, not knowing what would make it better or just make it hurt more. He'd gotten really good at laughing things off, as could be expected; the loss of his ear had been good practice. Somehow, even that, he'd been able to make into something – well, funny. Not devastating anymore. Or not as much as it had been, that horror of having the entire half of one's world so suddenly become silent and empty – and the headaches that came with it. Not just from the wound, though it hurt like absolute hell, but the extra strain on the other ear, nobody ever thought about that or warned him about it. It had really taken getting used to, but he had, eventually, even managed to laugh about it.

Of course, then, he'd had help.

And however good he was at laughing off problems… this one was a little bigger than anything he'd faced before. He wasn't that good. Not by himself, he wasn't.

The only one who'd really been able to understand, he thought, was Harry. Oh, of course everybody understood to a degree (he wasn't the only one in the world who'd lost someone in the final desperate struggles of the war, after all) or tried to, but Harry knew what it was to be looked at differently, to watch people struggle to come up with something to say. Their well-meaning awkwardness, trying so hard to think of just the right apology for long-dead parents and a childhood spent away from the world he belonged in, and now George was watching people do the same thing to him. Feeling their goodwill and apologies just weighing down on him, suffocating when he wanted just to tell them to stop it, stop it right now, it's not your fault and we both know you can't do anything to make it better, just stop trying, it's better for everyone if you don't. Don't even try to say you understand, because there's just no possible way you could. Don't believe me? Still think you can understand what I'm going through? All right, then. You try losing an ear and then losing something else that's just as important. More important. Might as well have lost both ears.

I would have, sooner than live like this. Still would. It'd be a fine trade, I'd make it any day. An eye for an eye, an ear for a twin. Sorry if I seem a bit bitter, but complete deafness is starting to sound okay, maybe then I wouldn't have to listen to people saying "oh, I'm so sorry", when they have no idea what they're sorry about and could never know. Ha, 'sound' okay, get it? … Just stop it, please.

Actually, that it looked empty hadn't been his first thought. It was just the one that didn't hurt as much to acknowledge.

His first thought was, really, I can't believe I'm coming back here. Alone.

He stood on the doorstep of Weasly's Wizard Wheezes, adjusted the strap of the bag that hung from his shoulder, and fumbled in his pocket for the key without bothering to try the knob first; he knew it was locked. He remembered making damn sure it was locked when they'd left in a hurry, though of course a locked door wouldn't stop anyone who really wanted to get inside. Lucky then, that a locked door wasn't all that any sneaky evildoers would meet. Anyone who tried messing about with their store would've been lucky to scarper off with their head on the right way and all important body parts still attached and the right size and color, much less actually managing to nick anything or do any real damage. Intruders wouldn't be seriously injured by the booby traps, of course, just stung a bit and creatively humiliated – the owners of the shop weren't Death Eaters, after all.

They weren't evil, sick bastards bent on purifying the blood of all imagined imperfections. They weren't ruthless, sadistic bigots, willing to kill with impunity, taking out anyone who stood in their way, even schoolchildren or completely innocent and ignorant bystanders. Those men (and women. Some of the most evil had been women.) with the masks and the Marks were the ones who'd taken everything from him, robbed him as surely as if they'd ransacked and destroyed the shop, left it broken and bleeding and –

Might as well just go inside, can't stand out here staring bleakly up at the place all day. Damn it. Can't find the key. Know it was in here somewhere.

Oh. Pocket's got a hole.

Fine.

He took out his wand and jabbed it at the knob, muttering the appropriate trigger word under his breath. The doorknob actually jumped and rattled a bit in its socket and a couple of white sparks flew and fizzled on the ground, leaving little trails of smoke and a sharp, sinus-opening smell in the air behind them. Bit more aggressive than he'd intended – and it was lucky he hadn't accidentally tripped a security charm he'd forgotten about. Maybe he had, and it had just recognized him as the caster. Never mind, no harm done, just get ahold of yourself. Don't feel like putting out any fires. The door swung open and he slipped inside.

God, it was good to be home. Wasn't it?

* * *

It was even darker inside than it had looked from the front. Still, he didn't turn on any lights – no need. Some fading daylight still came in through the windows, and anyway, he knew the rooms well enough to walk them with his eyes closed, past the shelves and displays of wonderful and ingenious objects of mirth and mayhem. If it were any brighter, he'd be able to see the layer of dust coating everything, which would make him feel guilty for letting it get that way. Even if he'd never had any concern for cleanliness in any other part of his life, had even cultivated an atmosphere of familiar and easy chaos (even though he and Fred  _had_  had a system when it came to the important things, it was a system nobody else could ever have made sense of)… this was different. And he didn't want to look at it right now, didn't want to face it. Disturb it, even to clean and brighten it up and get it ready for customers. Except for the dust, it was the way they'd left it. To mess with anything now would feel like… disturbing something sacred. A shrine.

 

He didn't feel the need to turn on any lights because the shadows weren't all that threatening. At least intellectually, he knew that there was nothing lurking in them. No killers lying in wait, no masked figures ready to leap out at him with green lights at the tip of their wands and murder at the tip of their tongues.

George moved slowly through the shop, back through a door behind the counter with the sign: "No entry beyond this point. Violators will be toad." It led to a narrow staircase that led up into a slightly brighter part of the building. He hesitated, just looked up the stairs for a few seconds, still lost in unaccustomed deep, dark thought.

People didn't need defenders anymore. They didn't need brave, hardened fighters like Mad-Eye, who'd send potential evildoers running for their lives, or… die trying. That was one thought that somehow made it all right, Moody's death – that he'd died in a way he would've wanted, defending Harry and the Order's hopes. George could never imagine Moody old and weak, dying slowly and quietly, alone in some sickbed… and that was in all likelihood what would have happened eventually, now that there was no more war to be fought – at least, not so overtly. Of course, knowing Mad-Eye, he would have managed to find the last remains of battle and make himself invaluable, courageous until the very end… but right here, right now, there was no need for him. Practically speaking. He would've hated it. It was this thought that helped George make sense of it.

When it came to his twin brother, George had no such comforting thoughts. Nothing made sense. Nothing.

He made a sudden and odd noise that was equal parts sigh, scoff, and agitated growl, and started stomping jerkily up the stairs. He hadn't meant to let that line of awful thoughts grimly tiptoe up on him. They were doing that more and more often (really, what had he expected, coming back here? That bit about the place being a shrine of all things had really set a new mark for odd, unhappy thoughts), but up until now he'd been getting good at keeping them at bay. Training himself in a new kind of constant vigilance, he supposed. But really now, just because he was back in the shop didn't mean he was suddenly going to give in to hopelessness and grief, dissolve into tears and become completely helpless, useless, pathetic… no. It wasn't him. Despite everything that had happened, he wasn't about to let  _that_  happen.

Breaking down like that would mean losing the very last scrap of himself he was holding desperately on to. Start down that path and you'll never come back up from the spiral. Let one tear fall, and you'll never stop the rest. No.

He reached the top of the stairs and came to a halt, just looking around for a moment. He let the strap of his bag slide from his shoulder and felt the bag slide down to rest against his leg, but he was staring around the small, dusty hallway, into an open doorway. That way led to what could unimaginatively be referred to as the development room. Their laboratory of laughter. The room they'd nearly destroyed so many times with experiments and testing the new merchandise, his favorite part. Where the magic happened. He could see enough without taking another step – the tables filled with orderly (to them) clutter, items covering the desks, left out when they'd cleared out in a hurry to join the Order's efforts. Objects large and small, bizarre and innocuous, some fuzzy, some furry, and some dully shining beneath the fine coating of dust. The blackboard that took up an entire wall, the most bright and colorful drawing board a "development room" could ever boast – filled with sketches, scribblings in two similar but distinct handwritings and every color of the rainbow, and many, many doodles. Unfinished projects. He couldn't even remember any of them now – and they had seemed so important.

No, he wasn't going in there yet. In the very best-case, unlikely but optimal scenario, he'd remember everything they'd been working on, be absolutely bursting with new ideas, and spend all night bringing them to life. And he simply wasn't right for even that happy possibility just yet; he was tired. It was only just getting dark outside, but all he wanted to do was sleep, right now. Sleeping was something he'd found himself doing a lot more of, when he wasn't awoken by nightmarish images and sounds, and odors. Even smells, in his dreams, something he hadn't even known was possible. Like the headaches that came with one ear compensating for two, this was something else that nobody had warned him about, being around the dead and dying. The smells…

He turned his back on the open doorway and the ideas on the blackboard that were slowly bringing him back here ("hair turns orange and green? Or just falls out? Rotten egg smell – rid or keep?"), and walked slowly down the hall. Two doors stood next to each other at the end opposite the lab. Identical.

He quickly opened the door on the left and stepped through, shutting it immediately behind him. He wasn't ready for the door on the right yet.

* * *

It had been odd when they'd first moved into the shop in earnest, having his own room. They'd always shared one growing up, in the higher floors of the Burrow (but, mercifully, not directly beneath the ghoul in the attic). It had always been a bit cramped, true, especially when they'd gotten older – one more person in there would have been unbearable, and there would have been a mild Weasly-boy rebellion before the youngest had started Hogwarts. They'd never minded, however – what with the constant collaboration between the two of them, it was actually more convenient to share a room when a late-night discussion was only a poke or well-aimed pillow toss away.

 

When they'd realized that there were two bedrooms instead of one on the shop's upper floor, there'd been a bout of gleeful celebration followed by a several hours of isolation in their respective bedrooms, basking in the unprecedented luxury – what George would remember as until then the longest time he had spent away from his twin. They'd been constantly together as long as he could remember, at home and then inseparable at Hogwarts; this really was a change. And he'd loved it at first, despite the strangeness. He adored new experiences, and that certainly had qualified, and merited exploration. It wasn't until later that night that he found himself lying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep without the soft sound of his twin's breathing and light snoring across the room from him. The atmosphere was alien, strange without him. It had been a very long, very lonely night that passed without his sleeping a wink. He blearily stepped out of his room the next morning to see Fred do the same at precisely the same moment, an equally bag-eyed and blinking, tousle-haired mirror image in pajamas, but holding a pair of objects in his hands and that excited glint in his otherwise sleepy eyes that meant he'd had an idea in his twin's absence.

They were two tin soup cans with strings attached through the bottoms (but two separate strings, not connected), a near-replica of the Muggle toy phone their excited father had shown them years and years before – that was how Muggle children communicated, he'd said, when they were far away from each other, by pulling the string tight and speaking into the cans. He'd found it fascinating. They hadn't seen the point – they were never far away from one another, and they had owls and magic anyway, so why would they need an old can and string? But Fred explained, in a light and offhand way, that they really could be useful now with a bit of magical enhancement - one simply needed to have the string in contact with a wall and the can earpiece could hear right through it: a prototype of what would later become their invaluable Extendable Ears. It would be downright handy to have an easy communication device right there on their bedside tables, wouldn't it, and maybe we could try them tonight? He'd spoken in such a light, casual way as to say that it was just something he'd cooked up on a whim, no real reason, stupid idea really, understand completely if you think so too.

But George had been delighted, happily taken one of the can-and-strings and placed it in his own room right that second with a "brilliant, mate!" through it once it was done. He'd been lonely too.

"Trust that at this moment I am bowing deeply at your generous appreciation, good sir!" had been the laughing, mock-formal reply that George could hear as if his twin were standing next to him. Or something like that… Couldn't remember the precise words, but Fred had sounded almost relieved, he remembered that much.

George had had no trouble sleeping in their new home ever again, after that morning.

Now he turned the can around and around in his hand, curling the string around his fingers. This night was going to be different, he could tell.

There wasn't going to be a reply if he spoke into the can and pressed the string against the wall.

Face twisted, he firmly put the can down on the nightstand and wound the string around it like a spool of thread, before getting beneath the bed covers and laying down. A few long seconds passed, and he sat up again, unwound the string. Pressed the end of it against the wall again. It was better that way.

He laid back down, and tried to sleep.

He tried for a long time.

* * *

"Oi…"

 

George stirred, flopped one arm over his head, across his eyes, and let out a little groan. What the hell was he playing at, waking him up now, when he'd just gotten to sleep a minute ago, a second?

"Oi, Forge. Wake up, mate!"

"Shaddup. Talk inna mornin'." Any other night and he'd be happily picking up that can and holding it to his ear, curious about what was so pressing that it had to be spoken of right that moment, certain he was about to hear something really good. But not right now, he'd just dropped off after hours of staring at the ceiling and warding off the stuff that bad dreams are made of, didn't Fred know how tired he was? Didn't he know he just wanted to be alone in this empty house, to think about…

Damn it, Fred, you're dead. Leave me alone. Let me sleep, forget about you for a while. It's better that…

Wait.

George sat bolt upright in bed, gaze flying around the room, searching frantically for the source of the voice. It was so familiar, so very familiar, he might have suspected himself of sleep-talking. But no, the room was dark and still and achingly familiar. It was nothing.

Unless – with a jolt, George's hand flew to the can and string, held the twine to the wall and pulled it tight with his other hand. "Erh – hello, is anybody there?" he spoke into the can, hearing his voice echo in the metal space. "This is private property, you know, you'd better get your arse out before I – well, use your imagination!" He was too sleepy to think of a suitably creative and ominous threat, instead held the can to his ear, listened intently. Silence. The things were sensitive, too: they'd pick up the slightest noise in Fred's room, the creak of a floorboard, the shift of furniture, even breathing. Nothing.

It had been a dream. Just a dream.

But he'd been so sure he'd heard something… But then, he wasn't exactly the authority on accurate hearing anymore. Probably just his poor, overworked ear and tired brain having a bit of fun with him.

He sighed, and placed the can back on the bedside table, string against the wall. What had he been thinking? The shop's defenses were still up, secure as when they'd left, and if they'd managed to ward off a legion of dark wizards and dementors, what chance did a common house-burglar have? Of course it was nothing.

And the other wild thought he'd had, the one that had nothing to do with burglars and everything to do with… well, that was even more ridiculous. He was sleep-addled and might even still be dreaming, right this minute, how could he be so stupid? Even still… But no. Of course there was nothing there. But with that resolution, something inside started to hurt. He lay back down, pulled the covers up over his head.

He just needed a good night's sleep. It'd be the first he'd had in weeks – maybe the strange-familiar voice had been just a byproduct of exhaustion and grief and emotional trauma. He was so worn out, in many more ways than one. Or maybe it was something more serious… God, maybe it was something he'd better have checked out. After all, if reliable sources could be believed, hearing voices, even in the wizarding world, wasn't a good sign. What was wrong with him? Could he really have… snapped? He'd heard of people ending up in St. Mungo's after suffering an interminable loss, and really he was forced to admit… this was pretty interminable. But no. No, no, there was nothing, repeat, nothing wrong with him. Just needed a good night's –

"OI! YOUR HOLEYNESS!"

"BLOODY HELL!" George shot bolt upright, nearly giving himself whiplash in the process. He'd definitely heard something that time and it was right here in this room, loud and clear and definitely  _not_  a simple dream-voice, this was real… but, for the life of him, there was still nothing there. He looked in every direction – the closed door, the walls, window, posters, ceiling, nothing. Nothing. What in the world was –

"Ahe-he-HEM. Down here." The voice had taken on an air of long-suffering, martyrlike patience.

George slowly lowered his head from where he'd been searching the ceiling, down past the walls and empty dark, to the floor.

His scream filled the small room and the bed actually slid a few inches across the floor as he leaped upright on it and backpedaled, snatching at his wand on the bedside table and pressing his back against the wall, as far away from the object of his horror as he could get. He just barely managed to hold onto his wand with violently shaking fingers and point it at the bizarre object on the floor.

"Get away. Now. If this is a joke it's a truly  _fucking tasteless_  one and – and I swear I'll kill you, if I find out who this is!" He spoke through gritted teeth and squinted eyes, starting to sting and burn with hot tears. "N-now, you have to the count of three to get the hell out of here and lea-leave me the bloody hell alone! One… tw-"

"When we were a precocious nine years old," the voice interrupted him loudly, speaking very quickly, "you had a stroke of pure genius for one so young and innocent and we transfigured our dear baby brother Ronald's teddy bear into a giant spider, resulting in his lingering aversion to all things eight-legged and hairy! Really quite a nice bit, that, McGonnagal would've been proud if her sense of humor was as elevated and refined as ours and not more on the level of a wrinkled, vulturelike executioner."

During this thoroughly unsettling speech, George had slowly, slowly started to open his eyes and loosen his death grip on his wand. Something in the voice made him stop, listen… And that story – only the family and the ones they and Ron had told knew about that… and he couldn't possibly imagine any of his closest friends or family ever cruelly toying with him like this. Of course, there was one other person who knew about it, one who had been directly involved… Irrational, wild, arguably insane hope started to fill him, foolish hope that all common sense dictated had no hope of not being crushed beyond resurrection… But when had he been one for common sense?

"What… are you?" he whispered in a broken voice, blinking several times. He could barely see now with the burning tears spilling down his face, tears that had never had a chance to fall, ever since he'd seen his brother's shattered body for the first time. But he wouldn't forget the thing he'd seen seconds before.

"Come on, mate. Open your eyes." The voice was softer this time. Gentle. "I know I'm not all  _here_ , just yet, but you should recognize this ruggedly handsome face. It'd be yours too, if yours weren't all screwed up and damp at the moment."

George fought to obey. He wiped his hand across his face, took a deep sniff and blinked rapidly while the voice made various encouraging noises. Within a few seconds his vision had returned through the blur, and he sat down hard on his bed. He shook his head, slowly, and let out his tense breath in a long hiss. "Can't be."

There on the floor at the foot of his bed, sat a silvery, translucent, and very disembodied head. Or rather, it was apparently bodied, as the neck extended down into the floorboards, and the body was presumably floating around the ceiling of the bottom floor. This was all secondary to the visible head sticking up through his floor, however – and primarily, to whom the head belonged. It was presently grinning at him in a winning manner that George recognized wrenchingly from countless exploits and adventures.

"Can too." The voice was reassuring, the face open and happy, with that excitable, pleased-with-himself glint that George remembered seeing early one morning in the hallway outside, the first time he'd seen the cans and string… "Say it."

"No…" he shook his head. To say it would be to acknowledge that it was really there, it was  _there_ , in his floor, in front of him, that he was actually seeing it… this wasn't real, and saying the name would make it real. This couldn't be true. It was too good.

It was going to be taken away as soon as he believed in it. Everything had been taken away from him, so why not this?

"Come on, say it. It's all right, it'll do you good. Better than Remus' chocolate against a pesky dementor."

But then, he  _was_  here. It was his voice, his face, his mannerisms – at least the ones George could see from the neck up. This wasn't a dream…

"Fred…" George breathed.

"That's right. In the fl – well, no, not quite in the flesh. There, now was that so hard?"

"Yeah – no - wait." George was shaking his head, staring still in disbelief This is all insane. Maybe I'm the one who's insane… this must be all in my head. But then… Hogwarts had been full of ghosts. Why not this room? Why not his brother? "This is – how are you here? You're… dead. Are you a ghost?"

The face looked decidedly as if he were about to let loose with something quite sarcastic along the lines of "figured it out then, did you? Well done!", when he stopped, nodded all of him that George could see, and smiled. Best be gentle with his poor twin – he'd had a hard enough time of it already. "Yeah, though I'm still getting used to it, haven't quite got the – hang of it – so far." This was punctuated by various grunts and struggles, as something quite odd began to happen. An arm appeared suddenly through the floorboards as well and gripped at the floor, simply going back through it twice but then seeming to be able to get a sort of grip. The newly ghostly Fred strained and managed to pull himself up as if climbing out of a swimming pool, and he appeared from the chest up now.

"Er, a bit of help? No, never mind, don't guess you could do anything… with you in a tic…" Before George's dizzied and red eyes, he struggled up through the floor with an outpouring of grunts and imaginative expletives, grabbing the floorboards and bed legs to pull himself up. It took around a minute of climbing and sinking back through the floor, but eventually he succeeded, and stood triumphantly in front of his amazed twin, looking tired but extremely pleased. "Right, then! I'll get this in no time, just a bit of practice is all! Still can't manage stairs, hence my exciting appearance in the floor, but I'd say I'm quite talented at this so far. It's really amazing!"

This had, mercifully, given George the break he needed to return to his senses, put some of the pieces of his near-broken, jangled nerves and emotions back together, though by no means were they all in place. It was definitely going to take some doing. "Fred," he said again, just pronouncing the syllables slowly. Getting used to saying the name again. Staring at (and, unnervingly, through) his apparently resurrected brother. "I thought… When that wall collapsed on you, they told me… I saw your body. It was dreadful. I thought I'd never see you again."

"Not an unreasonable thought. But hey – hey, now." He saw the look on George's face, and took a step closer. His foot sank through the floor up to his ankle, and he tugged on his leg below the knee, heaved it back up, looking a bit peeved. He sat down on the bed next to his twin, tried to put an arm around his shoulders, but George drew back, shivering.

"God, it's like ice! Er, I mean - " He quickly tried to amend, not wanting to insult his twin on his new state of being.

"No, no, I forgot." For the first time, Fred's face fell. Clearly being a ghost, while entertaining and fascinating at first, wasn't as wonderful as he would have had George believe. "Listen. Point is – I'm here now. I'm back." He spoke firmly, looking directly into the identical eyes. Or at least, they had been identical the last time they'd met. Both pairs of eyes had changed; both twins been through unimaginable horrors, they'd been hurt and torn in so many ways, and slowly had begun to piece themselves together again. "And I'm not leaving again."

George's shoulders shook a bit as he gave a sniff and drew his hand across his eyes again. He looked as if he would very much have liked to put his arms around Fred or his head on his shoulder for a moment or some such gesture, but the chilling contact of skin against ghostly apparition kept him away.

Instead he just looked at his twin, taking him all in with his eyes, and smiled. He was silver and shining, and giving off a very faint, white glow. He reminded George suddenly, wonderfully, of a patronus. The concept was more beautiful than he could express, even in his own thoughts. It made him blink a few more times, and not from the brightness of him.

"So tell me about it." He said at last. "What's it like, being a – ghost?"

"It's… different." Fred said after hesitating, holding up his own partially opaque hand and turning it in front of his face. "It's like having pins and needles all over your body. Can't always tell when I'm going to go through things either. And there's the chilling effect, as we've just discovered."

"Is it cold?"

"No, it's not really… it's not really  _anything_." Fred shrugged, frowning a little.

Suddenly, something occurred to George like an impossibly wonderful electric shock. "Fred, has anyone else come back? Remus, I mean, and Tonks, and Mad-Eye? Or anyone else that - anyone?" He was suddenly alive with excitement at the prospect of having more friends back, at the miracle expanded.

Fred was shaking his head – but rather than looking apologetic or saddened, a smile spread across his face. "No, not a one. But smile a bit, it's a good thing! They've all gone on. They're together, and they're happy."

"Gone…?"

"Gone  _on_. You know. Up there?" He jerked his head up at the ceiling. George was certain he didn't mean they were having a party on the roof. At least not in the commonly thought-of way. "Or something – I don't really know what they're doing now, or how they exist… but I had the choice too. I saw the light!" He said in an exaggerated parody voice that made George almost laugh. "And mate, it was really, really good. I wanted to go, really badly. It was beautiful." He looked faraway for a moment, as if remembering a gorgeous piece of music, trying to memorize every note.

"So then… why didn't you go?" George spoke gently, was reluctant to shake him back to reality (however surreal it might seem).

Fred didn't answer, just looked at him very deliberately, a little smile tugging at the corner of his colorless mouth.

"Oh…" George was taken aback. "Fred – no. You did this for me?"

"That's right! Not even death can break up the mighty dream magic-and-mayhem machine of Gred and Forge!"

George shook his head, looking stricken. "But – no! You gave up – Heaven, Nirvana, The Big Joke Shop In The Sky, whatever it was, you turned it down for me? No, you shouldn't have…"

"Don't say that."

"No, I mean you really shouldn't have!" George sat up taller, looked at his twin's translucent body that even as he spoke was sinking down into the bed. "Look… look at you. You're going to be a  _ghost_ … and you could've – gone on."

Fred sighed, looking as if he were grappling with the words, trying to explain it in a way to make George understand without thinking he'd gone mad as well as see-through. "Listen to this, now. There's nothing to do about it, it's too late for right now. And even if I had the choice again, right now, to go up in the white light or to stay right here with you… I'd stay here. I'd do it again. I would."

"But… why? It can't be just because of me. I'm not worth that, Fred! I'm not worth giving up – giving up  _bloody Heaven_ , and all our friends…"

"Come on. We've always been together, ever since we were born. Before we were born. That's not going to change just because of a little… erh, a little…" he shrugged, looking almost embarrassed. "That's not going to change. It's the way it's supposed to be." He paused, grinned. "Besides. All harps and halos and puffy white clouds? Not my kind of place. It'd be really boring without you around to shake things up a bit with me.

"So I'm staying right here with you, until you… well, you know… kick it." He was smiling widely now, sounding not at all as if he were talking about his brother's eventual death but rather planning a party or particularly luscious prank. "At a ripe old age, of course, nothing so messy as me, with a long lifetime of brilliant, magically mischievous achievements under your belt – and I'll be there to help you and make some more of my own, of course. Didn't think I was going to let you strike out my name on the sign out front, did you?" He was getting more and more excited with every word, planning out their futures. "I've still got my genius to add to this excellent little establishment – and really, do you have any idea the advantages I've got now in my specter-ly state of being? I can walk through walls, man! I can be invisible without a cloak or charm – I think! I got my left big toe very nearly vanished the other day!"

He laughed, then became more serious, speaking more slowly and in earnest. "And then, once you're… done here, I figure, we can both go on. Into the white light. Together. The Big Joke Shop In The Sky, did you call it? Yeah, that's rather good, mate!"

Tears were blurring George's vision again, but this time he was smiling, laughing a little. "That sounds... perfect." Couldn't think of anything else to say. Going on… together. A year ago, faced with something this wonderful, he'd have been all around the room, dancing, whooping, doing impromptu cartwheels and making up improvised songs with snappy and probably inappropriate lyrics. But there'd just been too much shock and loss, too much denial and anger, bargaining, desperation, and if he hadn't yet accepted, at least he'd been starting to. As unbelievably thrilled as he was, he needed time to get used to this. To get used to being happy again – he couldn't do it all at once.

"The others will want to see you," he managed after a hard swallow. "Ron and Harry, Hermione… Mum and Dad. Everyone. They'll be so happy…" He still couldn't quite believe any of this. It was too big, too sudden – too good. What would guarantee that Fred would be there when he woke up, assuming he could get to sleep at all tonight?

"Yeah! So, how do you suppose we break it to them? Head up through the floor again?" Fred grinned, pleased when he succeeded in making his twin laugh. That was a good sign.

"Nah – let's go a bit gentler on 'em than you did for me. Ground floor only. And let me talk to them first, give them a bit of preparation. Don't want any heart attacks and more silvery, floor-challenged people on our hands." George had to smile, imagining their reactions. Doubtless there would be shocks, and many more tears, but the joy and love that was to come, the relief…

He suddenly felt drained, exhausted, and Fred clearly noticed.

"Try and get some sleep, mate. You look like death on two legs." He gave a crooked little smile at George's grimace. "But I won't joke about that for a while, if it pleases Your Holeyness. It'll be our one forbidden topic of amusement."

"Just for a while. Until I get used to this."

"Right-o."

They sat in silence for a few moments, before Fred extricated his not-quite-solid form from the very solid bed, and stood up with minimal sinking. "Good night, then."

"Erh – wait." George called, haltingly. "Would you mind… staying, for just a bit? Because, I really don't know if this is – real, even. Any of it. I might be going mad… I probably am… but, I don't care." He gave a little nod in a sort of resigned resolution. "You're here, and even if it's all in my head, that's better than you not being here. Who needs sanity when I've got you, right?" He gave a weak little laugh and didn't look up at Fred. "And… it'd sort of – help convince me this isn't a dream, if… if you stayed. And you're here when I wake up"

Fred turned back, a sort of sad smile on his face, the kind that never would have appeared there while he was living. The kind that knew that there really were monsters under the bed, but not the kind small children had nightmares about. "Sure." He said gently, putting his hand on his twin's shoulder. This time George didn't flinch away; he was ready for the cold – but it didn't seem to be as intense as before, for some reason. The hand felt more solid, more… real.

"Practice makes perfect." Fred grinned at him, tried to give George's shoulder a little squeeze - which was actually felt, just a little bit. "Quite encouraging, eh?"

"Brilliant."

Fred crossed the room (with much more ease than his previous steps) to a comfortable, overstuffed armchair in the nearby corner. "I'll just be right here, try and get some winks as well. I assume ghosts sleep and if not, well, we'll find out. In any case, I can be your glowing silvery nightlight, chasing bad dreams away better than any flimsy dreamcatcher; nightmares are no match for me…" He eased his ghostly self down into it, and was pleased to note that he didn't seem to be sinking as much as before. Practice did indeed make perfect, apparently. Or it would, eventually.

George still hadn't laid back down or cracked a smile at the weak jokes, was still watching his brother with a vaguely wary expression, as if afraid he would disappear at any moment.

"Don't worry." Fred said gently. "I know this is really weird - it is for me too, believe me. But it's real, and we're going to get through this together, like we always have. Go to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up, I promise." He smiled. "I'm only a can call away."

George nodded, and laid down, but kept his eyes on his twin for a long time. The patronus in human form curled in the armchair cast a faint, soft silver-white light around the room, like a small moon had come in through the window. There was something else George had to say, but he had no idea how to put it into words – he didn't even quite know what it was.

It's incredible, unbelievable that you're here. When you died, so did I. I have no idea what I would have done without you; it was only a matter of time before I broke. I love you so much.

"I'm glad you're back."

"Me too. Go to sleep."

For the first time in weeks, George found that sweetly, mercifully, he could. It was the same way he'd felt with the magical can and string right by his bed, connecting them again, but so much better: this was how it was supposed to be.

It was better this way.

 


End file.
